


The Changeling

by euromagpie



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Faeries - Freeform, Fantasy Politics, Gen, Swearing, before the fall of cintra, its a wee bit tense, jaskiers solution to everything is to run from his troubles, no proofreading we die like useless bards, post episode 6, takes place in the time before geralt finds ciri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22255801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euromagpie/pseuds/euromagpie
Summary: One year after the dragon mountain fiasco, Geralt runs into Jaskier - in a tavern, of course. But the bard has an unusual contract for the Witcher, which soon proves to be more complicated and troublesome than it initially appeared.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 5
Kudos: 62





	The Changeling

Geralt runs into Jaskier again in a tavern in Zoltreska. It’s not unusual per se; they had seen each other a handful of times in the year following the unhappy ending of the dragon hunt. Destiny, fond of her sick jokes, seems to like to nudge them on the same path just to see what happens. Normally their eyes would meet across the dirty room - Geralt having been trained to pick him out of the crowd somewhen during their years of travelling - Jaskier would give a jerky nod, never pausing in whatever ditty he was serenading the crowd with (never Toss A Coin to Your Witcher, not anymore) and they would go about their own businesses, like ships in the night. Geralt would pick up a job – or not – and move on, never acknowledging that uncomfortable twisting sensation in his stomach.

The poet was safer away from him anyway.

The witcher had entered the tavern to only a few curious and hateful looks; the day was shuffling on into late morning, and the establishment was scarcely populated. But this was where the contract had said to meet the purser, so here he was.

He walked up to the bar and ordered an ale, being a little early to the meeting time, and settled down at a table in the back to drink and wait.

Geralt didn’t have to wait long, as he was soon approached, just not by the purser. From the rooms for rent upstairs, soft-soled boots came pattering down to the main floor, and Geralt’s Jaskier-sense tingled. He met the surprised eyes of the poet, who had bags in hand as though on his way out and onwards. Geralt had got so used to their barely-meetings that he felt a frisson of surprise when the poet changed his course and headed straight for him. He stopped in front of Geralt’s table, and just _looked_ at him.

“Hello, Jaskier.” Geralt said, voice calm.

Perhaps it should have felt familiar; after all, they had run into each other so frequently over that decade they had travelled together. But on those occasions it had always been _Jaskier_ who had initiated contact, bounding up to him with an excited grin, greeting him with a “Geralt of Rivia!” as though their every meeting was a first.

Now, the poet looked at him as though he was calculating something in his head.

“Hello Master Witcher.” He eventually returned. Was Geralt less of a supposedly emotionless killing machine, he might have winced at the impartiality of the other man’s tone.

Regardless of the cold greeting, Jaskier did take a seat across the table from him.

“I hope I’m not intruding.” He said.

Geralt shook his head silently.

Jaskier didn’t seem to care about his reticence. There was no prodding, poking or cajoling to try and relax the tension that filled the air between them. Instead, he cut to the chase.

“I have a contract for you. Your company for a three day journey to Siatka.” From behind him, he pulled out a money purse and opened the drawstring, upturning it to let coins tumble onto the tabletop. “For your troubles.” He explained.

Geralt didn’t even look at the coins. If he was taking the contract, it wouldn’t matter how much Jaskier was paying him. Instead, he examined his friend – could he still call him friend? He’d never used the word for their relationship before, and their period of estrangement hardly encouraged the term. Still, in the privacy of his own head, Geralt could admit he had a hard time untangling the word from his association with the poet.

The poet looked bad. Youthful, as he always did, but harried. His skin was unhealthily pale and dark circles painted his under eyes. There were lines of tension around the corners of his mouth, but Geralt couldn’t guess whether they were due to his living situation or this conversation with Geralt.

“Why do you need my company?” He asked.

It was a fair question. Siatka was a simple harbour town, neither famous nor infamous. It was the closest port to make the journey to the Skellige Isles, but Geralt knew Jaskier hated the cold, and thought the Islanders ‘ill-humoured’ and declared they ‘just didn’t get’ his songs. The journey to Siatka wasn’t very perilous either.

Perhaps this was Jaskier’s attempt to repair their relationship.

Instead of badly making up a reason on the spot though, Jaskier’s face just drew tighter.

“That hardly matters, does it? I’m offering you money for your services. If this isn’t acceptable, I will be on my way.” He moved to stand, but before he could, Geralt grabbed hold of his skinny wrist.

Geralt stared at his own hand that moved without conscious decision.

“I accept.”

***

They left almost immediately; Roach still had enough provisions that would last Geralt until Siatka. The stop-over was less for necessity and more out of habit, to check the monster situation in every town he passed through. The jobs were getting scarcer, he knew. Monsters were out there, but fewer and fewer as the years went on. He remembered Jaskier’s comment on this once, years ago, when he’d mentioned it in passing; that Witchers were their own worst enemy when it comes to career prospects. The better they do their jobs, the rarer offers will be in the future.

Geralt shot a glance over to his travelling companion.

For once, Jaskier had managed to procure himself a horse, a dappled gelding named Pegasus, that seemed enamoured with Roach. Geralt couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow when he’d seen that Pegasus was even carrying travel bags, having only known the poet to flit about with a satchel and a lute. But then, age breeds caution, and Jaskier must be around 40 now. Geralt was the worst of the wolf witchers at least at remembering how quickly and at what rate humans aged, being always surrounded by witches and mutants. He remembered Eskel’s laughter when he’d approximated a teenager’s age at about 50. Jaskier had never looked his age, though.

Speaking of, Jaskier had been unnaturally quiet. He had barely spoken a word to Geralt from the moment they left Zoltreska a handful of hours past. Neither had he started humming or picking at his lute, all habits Geralt had initially found irritating in the past, but come to tolerate (and perhaps, just perhaps, enjoy, when the poet got one of his compositions to a workable stage and the notes flowed from pitched noise into honeyed tunes). Instead, he’d spent the time hunched over one of his journals, scribbling or sketching. Geralt suspected it was less of a need on Jaskier’s part to chronicle his journeys, and more an attempt to avoid speaking to the witcher.

He grunted in annoyance.

By virtue of his upbringing he had a hard time interacting with normal humans. Perhaps Jaskier didn’t count as a _normal_ human anymore, but before he’d been easy for Geralt to get along with. The witcher would just let him go; the poet would ramble on, sing snippets of songs, exclaim and expound on any of the random thoughts that crossed his mind. Nothing was expected of Geralt but the occasional ‘hmm’ and to chime in now and then to correct a fundamental misconception on the existence or lack thereof on various monsters.

Now, instead, the air around the two felt awkward, and strained, and Jaskier didn’t look like he intended to do anything to change that.

“How have you been?” He eventually offered.

Jaskier’s head jolted up in surprise, before his eyes narrowed suspicious.

“Fine…good, in fact. I met this-“ He abruptly cut himself off from what had seemed to be the start of a good ramble. Jaskier shrugged instead. “Fine. You? Have you retrieved your Child Surprise yet?”.

Geralt shook his head.

“I’m not looking for it. I intend to avoid Cintra for the meantime.” _Forever, if possible_ , he thought to himself, _I don’t need to follow in any more of Eskel’s footsteps_. _I have enough scars as it is_.

They lapsed into silence.

Pegasus trotted over to nudge Roach’s snout, who, with a disdainful turn of her head, walked a little faster.

Internally berating himself, Geralt tried again.

“Who-“

“Geralt.” Jaskier stopped him, his voice on edge. He’d _never_ cut Geralt off like that – usually the witcher didn’t talk long enough to _get_ cut off. Geralt frowned at the poet. Jaskier just hunched in on himself. “Let’s just- not talk, alright? You love not talking. Just pretend I’m not here. You love doing that too.” He said, bitterly.

Geralt had no response to that.

In terse silence, the two rode on.

***

Burning red skies gave way to silky night as the sun dropped beneath the horizon. Geralt didn’t much keep truck with a steady timetable, instead eating when he was hungry and sleeping when he was tired. He’d often ride through the night unless Roach was being picky. Still, this was usually around the time Jaskier would start piping up that he was tired, and that his feet were hurting, and that Geralt was such a _slave-driver_ , _forcing_ him to march along like some pressganged private. So, to abort the poet’s inevitable whining, Geralt started nudging Roach off the beaten track to try and find a hidden spot to camp in.

“Let’s set up camp.” He said to Jaskier. It was the most they’d communicated since Jaskier’s request for silence.

To add to his alien behaviour, instead of crowing with relief and grinning at the prospect of having a lie-down, Jaskier tensed up.

“We should keep going, ride through the night. Make the best time we can.” He countered, voice nervous.

Geralt narrowed his eyes at him. In fact, he’d been skittish since the sun had started to set, looking over his shoulder with trepidation and jumping at Pegasus’ every sudden move. His behaviour had taken a turn from strange into suspicious, and every witcher worth his salt knows to investigate the suspicious; it’s usually just another word for ‘dangerous’. Though what kind of danger Jaskier could be dragging behind him, Geralt could only guess at.

“Alright, bard,” He growled, his thin patience breaking abruptly, “what’s going on?”

Jaskier’s head flung up like a startled rabbit.

“I don’t know what you mea-“

“Cut the bullshit, Jaskier. What are you running from?”

The poet actually opened his mouth to respond, when a noise made his eyes snap to the road behind them. Geralt’s gaze followed his, spying the approaching figure at the same time as Jaskier did. The figure was pure black, silhouetted against the navy of the moon-lit night. It was approaching at a full gallop.

Beside him, he heard Jaskier groan.

“Oh bloody- Geralt, Geralt hide me, Geralt.” Jaskier babbled, and inside Geralt, something loosened in relief. _This_ he was familiar with, _this_ was the Jaskier Geralt knew how to deal with.

Without a word, Geralt pulled Roach to stand between the stranger and Jaskier, reaching back to put a hand on the hilt of his steel sword, not drawing it. Not yet.

As it got closer, the figure started to gain some distinction to Geralt’s enhanced eyes; a human, long brown hair flowing behind her, brow drawn as intense eyes fixed on the pair of adventurers. At her side, a short sword swung beside an arquebus.

It was little to no time at all before the stranger drew up before them. She yanked at her horse’s reins, the stallion stopping but not stilling, stamping agitated hooves into the dirt. Geralt saw her gaze scan him, taking in his hair, his eyes, the two swords upon his back-

Her nostrils flared.

“ _Witcher_ ” She hissed, just as the wolf medallion on Gerald’s chest started to hum. His hand moved to the hilt of his silver sword.

He felt Jaskier pop around from behind his back.

“Go away! I told you to leave me alone!” He yelled at the woman, clearly agitated.

Geralt sighed internally. This was clearly just another coupling gone wrong; he’d never seen once of Jaskier’s misbegotten trysts turn out quite this bad before but-

“Your highness,” she said, and edge of exasperation in her voice. Geralt blinked. “we cannot keep doing this. You will have to come with me eventually.”

“I don’t have to do anything. You can’t ‘your highness’ me in one breath and give me orders in the nex-“

“Stop.” It was now Geralt’s turn to cut off Jaskier (which was the proper order of things, in Geralt’s opinion). He turned his head to fix his eyes on the bard.

“Is this who you’ve been running from?”

Jaskier shifted on Pegasus, looking conflicted.

“Yes- well, no, not just- but yes- not her _precisely_ -“

“Very helpful, thank you, Jaskier.”

Geralt got a disgruntled glare in return. He turned to face the stranger. As he observed her, he could immediately see the magic at work: at a surface level, she appeared as a plain-looking human. But look closer, and you could see how she moved like a marionette with one string cut – her limbs didn’t _quite_ move as they should, she blinked just a _little_ too slow, in an uncanny kind of manner.

An illusion.

“Tell me your name and drop your enchantments.” He ordered.

In response, her face twisted into a cold grimace. Her stallion tossed his onyx mane.

“You have no hold over me, mutant. No name shall you rece-“

“Her name’s Jagoda.” Jaskier offered helpfully. “Go on, Jagoda, _drop your enchantments_.”

Her face grew even more furious as Jaskier spoke, but, to Geralt’s surprise (and he had been surprised too many times in the last 24 hours for his own sense of security) made a sign in the air.

It was like her face melted, skin sloughing off. Geralt watched as her skull elongated upwards, her eyes grow in size and darken to a pure black. Her skin and hair paled, thinning into a state of near translucency, tinted with a deep blue colour. Her cheekbones rose and flared, her ears lengthened to defined points, more so even than an elf’s. Geralt realised she had been hunched over in her saddle as she straightened up; if they were to stand beside each other, she would be taller than him.

Jagoda’s appearance settled into that of something utterly inhuman.

“I am known as Jagoda of the Diamond Hills.” She spoke, staring haughtily down at the humans from her height advantage.

“Great.” Geralt tried to make his tone as bland and unimpressed as possible, “now what do you want with Jaskier?”

He felt, more than saw, Jaskier fidget behind him. He kept his eyes trained on the current threat.

“I am here to take his highness back to his kingdom.”

Now, there was a _lot_ to unpack in that one sentence. Before he could though, Jaskier exploded from behind him.

“How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not going anywhere, least of all to some underground burrow for some nasty faeries to slit my throat!” As he yelled, he pulled up closer to Geralt, using the witcher’s greater bulk as a shield. Geralt’s grip tightened on the hilt of his silver sword.

“It is your responsibility as king-successor to return to your people and rid us of the usurper’s power.” She rebutted him angrily. They had obviously had this strange conversation before, and was Jaskier a tad less vain, he would likely be tearing his hair out in frustration at this point. Geralt had no clue as to what was going on, but he did know one thing:

“The bard is under my protection. If he doesn’t want to go with you, he won’t.” He declared, voice deep and brooking no argument. Just like old times.

The faerie studied him for a moment, black eyes flickering from his face to his swords and back again. Movements measured, she reached to one of her saddlebags, pulling a thick purse from the inside. With a strong flick of her wrist, she flung it at Geralt. The heavy weight hit him in the chest; as it fell onto Roach’s saddle, the drawstring fell open, letting gold coins spill onto the ground.

It was easily five times the amount Jaskier paid him.

“Consider your job complete, witcher. I will take him now.” Jagoda said, coldly.

Geralt heard a sharp intake of breath from behind him, and the soft clop of hooves of a horse backing up.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked, voice alarmed. Even without turning, Geralt knew fear had crept across his friend’s face. His friend, who thought he would turn the bard over to this stranger for a handful of coins.

With a snarl, he backhanded the purse onto the road, spilling the treasure like wine. A metal screech echoed around them as he unsheathed his sword. Roach knew what this meant, and was immediately alert, tossing her head and stamping threateningly to try to intimidate Jagoda’s black steed.

Jagoda bared her teeth, all of which were pointed.

“You would fight me, humanite?” She laughed. Her own, long-fingered hands wrapped around the hilt of her sword.

***

Geralt tensed up, fully prepared for the encounter to descend into a one-on-one fight, when a black arrow whistled past him, barely missing his ear.

A strand of white hair floated to the ground.

“Shit!” Jagoda swore, her attention immediately drawn away from Geralt. The trees rustled threateningly, the sound of bodies moving through foliage, as another two arrows whizzed out, one after the other. Geralt knocked one aside with the flat of his blade, the pulse of adrenaline quickening his sense, but not enough – from behind him, came a yelp.

“Jaskier!”

“Run, your highness!”

Geralt and Jagoda shouted at once.

The witcher shot a quick glance at Jaskier, assured to see him clutching his arm, where a small trickle of blood was starting to run. Not seriously injured then; he can ride, and that’s good enough. Unfortunately, the idiot was dithering as usual, unwilling to leave Geralt to his own fight. Before he could yell at the bard more though, his focus was abruptly taken up by the explosive emergence of five fighters from the trees. They cried out in some corrupted version of Elder Speech, but Geralt understood enough; ‘kill’ and ‘prince’.

Silver flashed to bite into flesh.

***

The new attackers were good. Geralt grunted as a wicked blade sliced across his cheekbone; he had no time to down a potion, hadn’t needed to do so against a non-monster for years. Despite their lack of horses, the attackers’ height seemed to make up for it, their seven-foot bodies nullifying the rider’s advantage.

Thankfully Jagoda appeared to have decided that she was on the witcher’s side for the moment, and her unspoken threat to fight him before hadn’t been an entirely foolish one, it seemed. She bared her fangs as, with a quick swing, she beheaded one of the men, only to bend over backwards almost in half to avoid the projectiles the crossbowman at the back of the group sent her way. Geralt dispatched him swiftly while he was distracted, his sword slicing into the man’s throat like a, well, silver knife through butter, yanking it upwards to tear the skull off the top of the neck.

A jagged backswing blocked an attempt to strike at his side.

He felt the monstrous part inside him revel in the bloody mess as he and the faerie made quick work of the others. For either of them on their own it might have been a difficult fight to win, and it was made additionally tricky by both keeping their backs to Jaskier, trying to keep an eye on all attackers lest one sneak past them to surprise the bard with a sharp present.

As the last attacker’s body slipped limply off his blade with a sickening squelch, Geralt turned to find Jagoda advancing on his friend, her large hand wrapped around the bard’s thin wrist as Jaskier looked panicked. Geralt growled; he pushed Roach into a run towards the pair, swinging his sword at the faerie; she parried him with one hand, muscles flexing against the might of the witcher’s enhanced strength.

“You see your foolishness in running from me? If you do not come with me you will die, and the Seelie will descend into chaos. Oset’s men are relentless.” She hissed angrily at Jaskier, still not fully concentrating on Geralt.

Jaskier shook his head numbly, trying to twist out of her grasp.

Before Geralt could stop him, the poet drew back his hand and slapped her.

The witcher had expected her to strike the smaller man in return, but instead she _howled_ , releasing Jaskier and ducking back from Geralt’s released down-swing. She thrashed in the saddle, hands covering her face like she was burning, her steed whining and stamping in reaction to her distress. Jaskier gaped at her in surprise, his hand still raised, and in the moonlight, Geralt saw his silver ring flash.

 _Silver_.

She froze, one ebony eye glaring at Jaskier from between spread fingers still covering her face.

“ _You_ -“ She spat, voice full of venom.

Jaskier reared back, eyes wide in panic, Geralt raising his sword again, ready to strike-

Her shoulders slumped, the fight leaking out of her as she whimpered in pain.

“Jagoda, I’m sorry, I didn’t-“ Jaskier tried to move towards her, tone worried, but Geralt caught him by the back of his ridiculous brocade doublet, halting Pegasus in the process.

“Stay back.” He warned, voice deep, a warrior’s gaze still fixed on her, suspicious of her actions so far.

Jagoda raised her face from her hands and Jaskier winced.

It wasn’t a pretty sight. The ring wasn’t even that big, but where it had struck her square in the face, it had left a huge, blistering wound, rendering her previously-hidden eye swollen and weeping. A smell like burned dog hair drifted from her.

“Now,” Geralt said, tone deliberate, sword at the ready, “you have some explaining to do.”


End file.
